Late Night Poetry release day

Happy release day to me, Lou and Sully! We haven’t forgotten that we have a release day, we’ve just been super busy with real life stuff today. Also, we attended a Facebook Party for the release of K.A. Merikan’s new book. But now I’m done with all real life stuff and now it’s time to celebrate the new release!

I really love how this book turned out, and Lou and Sully are very near and dear to my heart. The idea of it all was based on a real life thing: a gazillion years ago before my husband and I was a couple, he used to call me late at night and leave messages on my answering machine. But unlike Lou, he didn’t read me poetry. Instead, he used to play the guitar and sing my favorite song, and I loved coming home to my messages like that from him.

Can you blame me for marrying him and holding on to him with both hands? 🙂


“If you love romance, this story is a MUST read!!”

Xtreme Delusions

graphic1 late night poetry nell iris

A love story told in answering machine messages.

Saying “I love you” to someone who says it first, isn’t supposed to lead to a break-up, but that’s what happens to Sully and Lou. Sully is out and proud while Lou is in the closet, so when their relationship deepens, Lou runs.

But then Lou starts leaving emotional messages of remorse on Sully’s answering machine. Sully is torn between his love for Lou and his attempts to get over him. With each message, Lou’s regrets deepen. With each message, it becomes more difficult for Sully to forget him. With each message, Sully finds it harder to want to move on.

Can old love poems and heartbreaking honesty help Sully and Lou find their way back to each other?

M/M Contemporary, approximately 10 000 words

Buy links

JMS BOOKS (20% OFF UNTIL APRIL 3, 2020 | AMAZON | AMAZON UK | KOBO | APPLE BOOKS | B&N


I thought you might like an excerpt? 🙂 

So I climb into the car and let them drive me to the apartment they’re sharing as roommates, and when Lyle pours wine all the way up to the rim on one of the glasses he bought “twelve for one dollar” at a garage sale, I take a deep breath and force myself to smile.

“Cheers,” I say and down the entire contents in a few huge gulps. A shudder racks my body when my glass is empty; red wine isn’t meant to be chugged like ice water on a hot summer’s day. But Lyle and Brian slap me on the back as though I’d just won Olympic gold and refill my glass.

More people show up after a while, and soon the place is packed from wall to wall. Everyone is drinking and dancing and laughing and I join them, pushing late-night poetry readings and heartfelt confessions and half-swallowed sobs to the back of my mind.

I drink too much and I laugh too loud, but no one seems to notice. Maybe they’re hiding something, too; maybe I’m not the only one nursing a broken heart. So instead of poking bleeding wounds with well-meaning but invasive questions, maybe people choose to look the other way. Any other day, it would have bothered me; I want to be seen, not ignored. But not today.

Today, I let Lyle pull me onto the sturdy coffee table— bought with their wild parties in mind— when someone plays “Kung Fu Fighting” on the stereo, and we sing along and perform our special Kung Fu-esque dance routine consisting of fake kicks and hand slashes complete with sound effects. The song bleeds into another and another, and caught up in the music, I unbutton the white shirt I wore at work, shrug it off and stuff it into my back pocket. Then I dance until I’m out of breath.

After jumping off the table, I scarf down pizza someone brought and guzzle down what feels like an entire French vineyard. Every sip is making me louder and my dancing more spastic and wild, and I smile and I smile and I smile until my face muscles hurt and my head spins.

I forget about Lou and my broken heart for a while. I forget about hungry kisses and roaming hands and a deep rumbly voice panting my name in my ear as he unloads his come in my ass. I just let myself be swept away in the crazy party and the carefree atmosphere and allow myself to be young and happy for a while.

So when a guy I’ve never met before crowds me against the fridge and runs his fingers up and down the tattoo on my forearm and scratches the measly beard I’m trying on for size with his other hand and says something about how an ass like mine should be against the law and how he’s wanted to kiss me since laying eyes on me when he entered the apartment, I let him. For a moment, I even enjoy myself. Having a hard body pressed against mine again, eager hands touching my bare skin, and a probing tongue licking along the seam of my mouth, begging to be let in, sends a shiver down my spine.

But his taste— cigarette smoke and warm beer— is all wrong and his tongue is too thick and insistent, and when I meet his gaze, his eyes are green, not blue. I grab his shoulders and push him away, ducking under his arm when he takes a step back.

 

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